


Wisdom's thrall

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2002-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:41:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3761924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silmarillion- and Unfinished Tales-based. Where draws the line between man and animal, between intellect and instinct? An account of the three years Tuor spent in captivity to Lorgan the Easterling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The food spread before me is rich in mockery of an honour-feast: hearty bread and cheese, fine wine from the cellar of the Master himself. Yet it hitches in my throat, loathsome to me, and it is with difficulty that I force it down, covering my grimaces with coughing. For it is not fed to me as fare for a guest, for a nobleman of the House of Hador as I am-- nay, it is fodder, fodder for the thrall-beast that I might work to my full strength. Fodder, and I must swallow it meekly, silently, my head bowed before the Easterling who paces around the slave table, a whip coiled at his belt and the cruelty he was nursed on building smirks on his swarthy face.  
  
I must bear his arrogance in silence, as I do the brutality of Lorgan. I must bear the welts leaking raw at my sides and on my hands-- he is careful with my back, for it must bear the heaviest loads. I must gnaw the cattle-feed from the trough, though my insides churn with revolt. I must bear it-- must bear this burden-- this burden that is wisdom.  
  
Though many seek it, wisdom does not come without price, and often in exchange demands the submission of pride. Some think pride a weakness; yet in bleak times pride can be one's only strength.  
  
I must hope that I will find the same fortitude in wisdom. In this place, pride will betray me to death.  
  
My coughing has drawn the thrall-master, and he stands across the table from me with arms folded. He is not a man of exceeding stature, but he appears so for his frame is large, his shoulders broad and his neck thick, corded. His hair is dark, cut roughly about his head, and his eyes no less, keen and cutting. His clothing is worn and stained, an oily smell of sweat and blood clinging film-like to his body. The sheer presence of the slave-master sends most bowing-- with fear or with nausea, either pleases him-- and when he speaks to you, an answer means certain death.  
  
But I am the personal slave of his master. A young man, nourished tall and vigorous by the Grey-Elves of Mithrim, and no sickly child of Dor-lÓmin. A beast still, certainly, but a valuable one.  
  
"Hold to your health, Strawhead, for without it you are worthless," are his only words to me, curt and low.  
  
I fix my eyes on the dull wood of the table surface, my breath cutting hard through my clenched teeth.  
  
 _If slaves had tongues, Master KhamÛl, oh, such names we would give you . . ._  
  
In his silence he still stares down at me, contemptuous, appraising, and my left hand curls reflexively into a tight fist. A jarring pain shoots to my brain and with a small gasp I release the fist, gingerly opening my palm. The thin bandage is stained with rust-- prying back a corner, I find the flesh underneath glistening, yellow fluid seeping from the welt. I turn the bandage up and close my eyes, slowly working my mouthful of meat between my teeth.  
  
If I could only chew forever, and never swallow, I might be able to stand it . . . __  
  
With a small grunt of satisfaction KhamÛl's shadow passes from my face, his heavy footsteps disrupting the dirt floor. I feel the tense shoulder of the slave next to me gradually ease into a slump, and open my eyes. With my tongue I push the meat against my cheek, mimicking the other slaves' slouch as I glance up. KhamÛl skulks at the other end of the room.  
  
So I have held myself in place. Again.  
  
 _But will I be able to do it again? And again, and again, and again?_  
  
The taste of bile claws at the back of my throat. I must, and so I will-- there is no more to it than that. I will hang my head, be silent, and submit, until . . . until I can do it no more.  
  
 _And when I can do it no more?_  
  
Then I will run. I will run before my mind is broken. I will not let them break me.  
  
My neck aches. I know not why and do not care to, but allow my head to hang forward in an attempt to ease the pressure. A lank of hair falls in my face, dull and greasy. It is foul to me and I am repulsed, knowing it to be my own. My fingers flail to catch it-- they never stop trembling now-- and I push it back, impatiently. I find a face watching me and raise my eyes to it, peering from beneath my brow.  
  
The slave next to me gazes back, listlessly, his jaw moving with the rhythm of a pacified cow. He dips his chin to take another bite of his bread, eyes unmoving. His hair clings about his face in grimy tendrils, tumbles into his eyes, and still he does not blink, does not seem to notice. As he does not notice the dirt encrusted under his fingernails, ground into his calluses. As he does not notice the insect which crawls across his plate, nor the wine which his unsteady hand spills into his lap.  
  
I wonder if he sees me.  
  
Feet pad lightly from behind me. I turn from the slave, chin to my shoulder as though I continue to stretch the muscles of my neck. It is a dog that has entered the room, one of Lorgan's hounds-- a lanky beast of russet-sheen, with eyes that watch me warily as its nimble feet pick a cautious path of approach.  
  
It looks soft, and clean, and I find myself wondering absently what it smells like. It seems a long time since I have seen anything so beautiful, so alive. Longer since I have touched . . .  
  
I reach for it with my hand-- too eagerly. The hound snarls, mouth curling back sharply from gleaming fangs, graceful back arching as the hackles raise on its neck. Its feet skitter sideways, away from me.  
  
Hastily, I turn my hand over so that my palm faces the growling dog. Abrupt frustration swells inside me and tears prick hotly at my eyes. I grind my teeth together, trying to blink the tears away. What base creature am I, to feel such desire to touch a hound? Nay, not a desire-- it is a need, a craven need.  
  
"There now-- there now, lad," I murmur, and my voice is dry, barely audible, an ache in my throat. Five words and I am short of breath. I wet my lips, tongue edging cautiously against the swelling of a split. I lower the hand, fingers pointing toward the floor to show no threat, and my arm quakes with the effort to hold it there.  
  
The hound shuffles forward, snuffling at me suspiciously. Without taking my eyes from him, I reach behind me with my other hand, fumble until I feel the moist folds of meat between my fingers. Slowly I bring it back, laying it in my open palm. The hound shies away at first, but catching the scent ventures forward again, rubbing his black nose against the warm flesh. His mouth opens and eagerly he snaps it between his jaws, eyes darting up to meet mine.  
  
"There, there now," I say again, for suddenly I cannot remember how to form any other words in this language, my language-- it is the tongue of slaves now, a feature of shame and degradation.  
  
The dog's head lowers as hungrily he devours the slice of meat. I hold my breath and tentatively rest my fingertips atop his head. The fur offers no resistance to my first short, light strokes-- but through my calluses I can feel little. I spread my fingers, laying my palm over his head-- oh, and he is smooth and soft, like-- like things I remember.  
  
 _Like a hand, white and Elven-slim, that stroked my cheek but softly to wake me._  
  
 _The hand that seized me, struck me, drew me urgently from an approaching band of Orcs and Easterlings._  
  
I hunch closer to the hound, my hand sliding down his back as I bend my face to his neck. I inhale deeply, filling my nostrils with the scent of his fur-- fresh and sharp, hints of pine and sap blending with the animal's own peculiar odour. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force back the tears that sting there once more.  
  
"Stay," I whisper to the dog, for I remember that word. It was the last Annael spoke to me.  
  
Annael taught me wisdom, this wisdom that governs my life now. They are wise, the Grey-elves. They will not fight, not without great need-- they will not stand to face a stronger foe for the sake of righteous pride, not when they have a chance for escape. They do not rush to fight uselessly, hopelessly, against that which they cannot defeat.  
  
No, it was I who did that. They fled.  
  
And as Annael taught me to fight, now he has taught me to flee. He stayed not by my side-- I, the man-child he fostered and raised-- he did not stay when my blood ran hot and I ran to face the foe alone. He did not stay, for he is wise, and a wise leader does not sacrifice his people for the sake of just one, even one that he loves. He fled with his people, my people, and I love him for that, for what he has taught me.  
  
I dread the day that I am so wise as to abandon my child to capture and death.  
  
"Haldad!" It is a command, harsh and sudden.  
  
The hound ducks, cringing out from under my hand even as I jerk it back, startled. A whimper escapes from the jaws which only minutes ago were thrust out in violence, and with head low the dog backs away from me, slinking against the wall toward a man who stands in the doorway.  
  
That is what I will be in time. Snarling at friends and grovelling before my master, faithless for the wage of food. That is what they will make me. Tirelessly they will beat me, beat me with their clubs, their whips, their scorn-- and when the pain and the rage of futility have broken my mind, then with the chains, with the burdens, with the labour they will break my spirit, until I too crawl upon the ground, my nose to the dust. And crawl I will, for no pride will I allow to raise me up and hold me in place for the points of their spears. I will become a beast for them, a beast of burden.  
  
For what does the Master have to fear from dumb beasts? Beasts do not have feelings-- beasts have no pride. They wield no weapons. They do not plot or conspire, they have no thoughts of the future. A faithful beast earns his master's trust where even a faithful servant cannot.  
  
And yet a beast's true master is Instinct . . .  
  
 _When I can take it no more . . ._  
  
Can a Man discern between what is wisdom and what is instinct? _Perhaps they are not so different._ Will I retain my humanity-- will I as Man control the beast, or truly become it? _Perhaps we are not so different._  
  
I twist my shoulders, returning to face the table. I swallow the meat in my mouth, tasteless pulp that it has become, and this time I do not choke. But before I am able to take another bite, KhamÛl's whip writhes above us, splitting the air with its sharp, black snap.  
  
"Enough!" his thick voice leaves the same sting as his whip. "You have eaten all you need. You are workers, not swine. Swine have no place here-- they are slaughtered to be feed for the hounds." A cruel smile twists his mouth awry. "Or the slaves. There is little difference, eh, Strawhead?"  
  
His eyes are fixed on me, iron-hard beneath his jutting brow. I concentrate on his eyebrows-- they are dark and unkempt, much like the rest of him, streaking toward his temples like black tongues of flame. There is a white stripe from the arch of his left brow-- strange that I have not noticed it before. Like the tail of a skunk . . .  
  
"I said--" The slender tail of the whip cracks against my ear-- warm blood runs down my neck. "There is little difference between the slaves and the hounds. Do you not hear me? Are you deaf, slave?" Another biting lash and my other ear is flooded. "Did you hear that?"  
  
His eyebrows are slowly pushing together-- now they meet solidly in the middle, a single straight line of raven fury. But the band of white extends downward, pointing at the corner of his eye. I watch a bead of sweat take shape on his temple. I watch it run down to the pit of his cheek.  
  
"So his head is truly filled with straw," he says at last, rough with loathing. He turns from me, to the slaves lining up dumbly beside the door. "File out to the fields," he orders, winding his whip back at his belt. "Get up, Hador-filth, or you will spoil the food with your blood."  
  
I grip the table edge, trying to gage the strength in my legs as I rise. The blood drops sticky to my shoulders now, and I hear the slave master's commands only faintly for my ears ring still with the crack of the whip. I shuffle for the door-- but I am not quick enough for him, and he shoves me so that I fall into the slave in front of me. The ringing in my head increases.  
  
 _When I can take it no more . . ._  
  
Even beasts may go mad . . .  



	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silmarillion- and Unfinished Tales-based. Where draws the line between man and animal, between intellect and instinct? An account of the three years Tuor spent in captivity to Lorgan the Easterling.

The sky was grey and uncertain all day, disheartening me with the threat of rain-- and now, as the clouds finally begin to disperse, the sun is mostly gone, so only a glimpse do I get of her warm light: a thin, sparkling rim outlining the distant blue peaks of the Ered Wethrin. It is but a fleeting moment that I may pause to look, and I am not satisfied-- but perhaps that is well. Much of my labour is out-of-doors now, and winter is passing. It will be a reason to awake tomorrow.  
  
I dare not look beyond tomorrow.  
  
I say winter is passing, but I have little heed of time. Perhaps it is only beginning-- the chill in the air certainly speaks so. The stiff, frosted grass pierces my bare fingers as I bend to the ground, gathering hewn wood pieces into my arms. Hefting the firewood closer to my chest I push swiftly to my feet-- the load is not so heavy as once before, and I am eager to leave the fields.  
  
They began slaughtering the pigs today.  
  
I think I understood their screams.  
  
The grounds I tread on the path back to the house of Lorgan are barren, of hues grey and sickly green. I would tear up the earth just to see soil, rich and dark and alive-- but my limbs are no longer mine to command, and faithfully they trudge onward to the halls of their master. A pale wind cuts through me briefly, lifting the worn leather garment from my skin, and I shiver. A stench is lifted with the wind, and I wonder if it is my own.  
  
Lorgan's house looms nearer, walls of dark wood and stone pillars. I approach it from the back, down the steep stairs which lead to the cellar halls-- no slave would dare the front doors. I stand in the doorway in a moment: the cold at my back and the home of those who hate me before me-- and I speak not only of the Easterlings. To the people of Dor-lómin I am the last of the house of their lords-- and yet here I toil among them, wordless and defeated, offering no hope.  
  
Their contempt is the only thing that will break through the despair veiling their eyes.  
  
A familiar sweat breaks out on my body as I step woodenly through the door. The thick, charred scent of smoke invades my nostrils as the walls close around me, and the metal collar grates against my neck as I swallow. I do not linger in these death-halls, passing to the great, twisting staircase in the centre. The stone jars my knees as I ascend, yet I breathe easier with each level I pass, until at last I reach the topmost-- the chambers of Lorgan.  
  
There is a wolf-pelt rug inside the door of his bed chamber, the thick fur gleaming, silver-grey. Sometimes I stand here and stare at it until I am dizzy with desire, desire for softness and comfort and warmth.  
  
I am not allowed to set foot on it, lest any filth take rest there.  
  
I step over it. Lorgan's bed chamber is wide and opulent, but the air is dank for there are no windows. There is a brass bathtub to the far left of the room-- a fine piece of work, and so I doubt it is of his hand. To the right is the fireplace, and that is what I tend. The bed takes up the majority of the room, a large wooden frame piled with hides and skins. The wall behind the bed is hung with Lorgan's trophies, plunder from the houses of Dor-lÓmin. Cracked golden crests, dust-coated amulets of amber and onyx-- I wonder if some are not from the home of my father. There are other things he hangs there as well; scalps and bones I will name-- I do not look at the others.  
  
I walk toward the fireplace, and find the room is not empty as I thought-- hoped. For Lorgan is on errand, to where I do not know, yet his wife remains, and it is she who glowers at me from the bed.  
  
"Filthy creature," she curses me. "I smelled you coming up the stairs."  
  
So it is as I guessed, and that stench is me.  
  
She was lying on her stomach, her supper tray before her, but now she sits up to glare at me properly. A woman of sharp tongue and quick hands, she is a source of fear to the slaves little less than her husband-- to some she is more fearsome, for there are none who can twist the mind of Lorgan as she does. She is not tall, yet her sinewy limbs stand in stance so haughty you do not notice it. Her hair is a shroud of long, untidy curls, her black eyes narrow and keen in her tan face.  
  
She looks at me the same as she does the piece of meat on her platter.  
  
"It has been cold in here an hour already. I will tell Lorgan of how slow you are when he returns," her teeth grind as she threatens me. She continues to watch me as I cross the room, snapping to my back, "Haste, slave! You do not obey at your leisure. Build a fire quickly and I shall consider not using you to fuel the next one."  
  
I crouch before the fireplace, handling the wood into it as noiselessly as possible. I feel her eyes boring into me and fight the urge to turn my head-- for her gaze does not stay on my face. I kindle the fire with flint and steel, and the red-gold flames begin to lick over the wood. I take a moment longer than necessary to adjust the logs-- so warm is that fire to my hands, so warm they begin to to itch. I try not to show my pleasure at being in front of the fire-- for that, surely she would have me beaten.  
  
"Get up," she orders from the bed, and she is reclined once more to eat her supper. "Fill the bath with hot water-- quickly, beast, quickly! If it is cold when you are finished you will sleep out of doors until spring."  
  
For a moment there is a twinge of repugnance in my gut, that she can so easily fill me with fear.  
  
Then it is gone and I hasten to obey my mistress.  
  
  
~||~  
  
  
There are exactly fifty-one steps in the centre staircase. The first time I came up carrying hot water I could not count past twelve-- I had forgotten, and I feared I was moving too slowly. Six times now I have come down and gone back up carrying water, and the numbers have returned to me. There are fifty-one steps.  
  
I am at number forty-five and my legs tremble. But it is my last climb-- the tub will be filled and she will dismiss me.  
  
I burned my hand. At least it is not cold anymore.  
  
I have reached the chamber-floor. Carefully I sidestep the wolf-rug-- drops of the boiled water spill over the side of the pitcher, scalding my fingers, but I make no sound, hurrying to the bath. I add the water, and the tub is now filled and steaming. She stands in front of the bed, clad in a sleeveless shift of coarse brown, arms folded and hard eyes watching me always.  
  
I am finished now, but the dread twisting inside me has not receded. I bow to her, backing away-- if I just reach the door without looking into her eyes, I will be free . . .  
  
"Stay," her command cuts coldly through my thoughts when our gazes lock. "And shut the door."  
  
 _I am breathing . . . I am still breathing . . ._  
  
The door is heavy-- there is no way to shut it without a slam that sends the wall-hangings shaking. Today I shake with them. Her eyes are black, black and unblinking-- her lips are thick, curled back in disgust as her gaze runs down me.  
  
"You smell like the pig sty, boy. You are repulsive. You will take a bath."  
  
I look into her face, looking desperately for some small sign of kindness or pity. There is nothing in her eyes but blackness. I fight to keep my jaw still.  
  
Her hand flies, strikes me across the face. My cheek stings, hot, but my head did not move. "Do you think I am your servant?" she cries. "Undress!"  
  
The leather jerkin granted to me is laced up the front, and I wonder at the sudden clumsiness of my fingers, that I am not able to untie it. She is watching me, impatience flaring her nostrils. Frantically I pull at the thin rawhide lacings-- but the knot is only tightened further. In a surge of frustration I grasp it and yank-- and the rawhide tears.  
  
Her eyes flicker.  
  
I swallow, but it is only relief that flows through me as I part the jerkin, easing it off my shoulders. I hold it, uncertainly, until she takes it from my hand and throws it to the floor. I wet my lips, scuffing the toe of one foot against the heel of the other to dislodge my boot. My skin feels damp from the steam, droplets pearling on the back of my neck. My breath is quick and hard in my chest.  
  
My boots are off and only my breeches are left. Her eyes stare straight into mine, dark and pitiless, and she smiles. She smiles-- I have never seen her smile before-- I have never felt so dirty and helpless and afraid before.  
  
"Take them off and get in," she bites out.  
  
I unfasten the belt latch and the air is suddenly cold on my legs as my breeches fall to the floor. I clamber swiftly into the tub, sloshing water up against the brass sides.  
  
 _Hot-- hot-- burning--_  
  
I gasp aloud for breath as the heat invades my skin, steam slinking up my neck, clouding my nostrils. I am wedged awkwardly into the tub, my legs drawn up, my back pressed against the smooth, searing brass. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as I watch my skin flush in the heat, the water lapping at my sides.  
  
 _So long since I have been warm . . ._  
  
 _So long since I have been clean . . ._  
  
She picks up the pitcher, dunking it into the tub beside me and then lifting it above my head. I flinch, for she still smiles-- then she pours, and the water courses over my scalp, down my back. I gasp again, in pain this time as the hot water stabs into the whip-welts on my shoulders. I clench my teeth so hard I am dizzy, and she pours again, soaking my hair.  
  
"There," she says, satisfaction evident in her voice. "Now we may call you Strawhead again, and not Mudlocks."  
  
I blink drops of water from my eyes, fixing them on the smirk curving her mouth. Her hand flicks and a bar of soap hits me in the throat, sliding down my chest. "Wash yourself," she commands, arrogantly.  
  
A slow breath hisses between my teeth. I retrieve the soap, fumble the slippery bar with both hands until I press it to my arm and begin to scrub. It burns, acidic, and I wonder in alarm what the soap is supposed to be used for-- it obviously is not meant for human flesh. I scrub harder, thinking to rub the pain away-- or at least to make the skin numb. Suds swirl across my skin, dripping down from my wrist and shoulder.  
  
She kneels on the floor now, next to the bath, and her fingers are curled tightly over the rim. Her eyes are riveted to the soap-- she follows it, up my arm, across my chest, over my abdomen. I feel her breath against my shoulder, hot and swift. I drop the soap and splash water onto myself, rinsing away the suds, and I watch her fingers uncurl, one by one, from the rim of the basin.  
  
I splash water in my face, push my hair back against my head, and I can stand it no more. My chin jerks and I stare wildly at her face, too near, too near-- but she does not return my gaze. Fingers press against my chest, cold against my hot skin, and panic spins my head as a low, throaty moan passes through her lips. Her hand inches downward, caressing me, clawing down my stomach, and I know I am going mad . . .  
  
"Touch me and I'll kill you," I whisper.  
  
She jerks, abruptly, shock throwing her eyes wide as they dart to my face-- but she can be no more shocked than I am. My pulse rages, my heart beating violently against my breast as I return her stare. Why did I say it? How could I say it? A lowly slave, I have no power, I have no worth, she is my mistress, I could not do it . . .  
  
 _Instinct . . ._  
  
I could do it, I know, as I look at her, so near-- I remember the lightness of the wood load, the ease with which I tore the rawhide. I am a boy no longer-- there is strength in my limbs, and so thin and frail her neck looks now . . . It would take but one of my hands to encase her throat, and I would crush it long before she could scream. I can imagine the look on her face, the fear, the horror at knowing she is dead, that I killed her, that she can torment me no longer . . .  
  
 _Wisdom . . ._  
  
I stand, climbing past her, out of the tub to drip on the wooden floor. Shivering in the damp air, I yank my clothes on, stumbling for the door. I do not look back-- I say no more-- I do not even pause to put on my boots. I leave the room, and she makes no call to my back.  
  
She cannot tell her husband . . . She cannot tell him she intended to bed his slave.  
  
My hair hangs slick against my neck, the moisture on my body seeping through my clothes as my weakened legs plunge down the staircase. _Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven . . ._ My legs give out and I drop to the stone step on which I stand, sucking deep, deep breaths into my lungs. My eyes drop shut. I lean against the cool wall.  
  
There is a scraping noise below me, and fright surges life into me so that my eyes fly open. But it is only Haldad-- Lorgan's hound. His feet grate against the stone as he scrambles up the stairs, tail wagging tentatively as he ventures toward me, nose extended.  
  
I dare not reach out to him, for surely I would strike the animal dead.  
  
My eyes close again, seeking the memories which have faded to grey, to shadow. _Annael, what is this torture you have taught me? Instinct I should follow . . . then I shall be satisfied, and avenged . . ._  
  
But before unconsciousness masks my mind, there is a whisper, an image, a flicker of colour. It is the reward of wisdom, that I had forgotten.  
  
 _Freedom . . ._  



	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silmarillion- and Unfinished Tales-based. Where draws the line between man and animal, between intellect and instinct? An account of the three years Tuor spent in captivity to Lorgan the Easterling.

They have given me an axe.  
  
I did not remember, at first, any use for an axe other than chopping wood-- because I could not remember doing anything other than just that. I did not know what else one would use the steel edge to cut. It would not break the iron collar about my neck, I know that.  
  
But when I stopped to breathe, when I withdrew the axe with the heel of my hand and a sliver of blood cut through my palm, then I remembered.  
  
 _Dark faces surrounding me, some the grotesque nightmare images of Orcs, others with the frighteningly human features of Easterlings. Two, three at a time they lunge toward me, black scimitars and broad, blood-stained swords jabbing near my gut, swinging at my head. My hands, tight around the rough firmness of a wooden handle, moving of their own accord-- sweeping in short, fierce strokes. A startling jolt when the blade embeds in the chest of a goblin-- I stumble, struggle to wrench it out. Blinding sparks of pain when a steel edge gashes my forearm. A spray of rank blood as I throw my weight aside and swing the axe into the attacker's skull . . ._  
  
My throat constricts in gasps of breath and my fingers fly open, dropping the axe to the grass. Furiously I glance around the clearing, darting over the fallen tree trunks-- and there are two guards, leather-clad and armed with whips and swords, one to my far right and another behind me. They will see me, they will see I have an axe, they will take it and use it on me . . .  
  
"Pick it up," sounds a wheeze to my left. It is a man-- I think. It could be a boy. He has no hair, I could not tell you if it has fallen out or been shaved. His limbs are long, lanky, his eyes pitted into his head like stones gouged into a face of earth. He stands over a log, chopping branches from the trunk. "Pick it up and work, or they will beat you. Have you learned nothing here?"  
  
I crouch and pick up the axe, because he told me to. And I stand, stretching and bending my arms as though I intend to strike though there is no tree in front of me. "What is your name?" I ask. I wonder how old he is . . . I wonder how long he has been here . . . I wonder if he lived with his mother and father, and how many brothers and sisters he had, and if he loved to hunt or fish, and if he was in love . . .  
  
He spares me only a brief, nervous glance. "Work," he breathes again. I stare at him in wonder, for his voice is like music-- it pitches high and low in rapid succession, punctuated by short, heavy breath, and a rattle in the back of his throat.  
  
"Please-- please tell me your name." Tell me your name and your father's name and your mother's name, tell me the name of your favourite hound or of a bird or a river or a mountain, only please do not stop speaking to me . . .  
  
He shakes his head, coughs, bending over the log. "Work, you fool! They will hurt me if they hear you speak to me-- you will kill me."  
  
And I chop, frantically, because I am afraid they will kill him, and I love him, so dearly, so dearly. I shift the axe handle in my grasp, feeling the familiar firmness beneath my hands, and I remember! I had forgotten that I remember. I remember what one can do with an axe.  
  
"I remember," I say it aloud, for he will be glad, he will be glad that I remember, for I am going to save his life. He does not hear me though-- he does not look up. "I am going to kill them-- I am going to escape," I add, a little louder so that he will hear me. He turns on me, his mouth slack, and I am glad, so glad.  
  
"Fool boy! You will not get ten paces before they kill you!" His eyes dart behind us to one of the guards. I watch the spit fly from his mouth as he speaks.  
  
"I will kill them," I repeat-- perhaps he did not hear it. "Help me-- we will slay them both and escape."  
  
"They will kill us," he grates, and his eyes are wet with fear as he grips my arm. "They will kill us all."  
  
"Help me," I say.  
  
"You have no chance with two-- with one, maybe, but there are two. They will kill you."  
  
"Help me."  
  
I stare at him in frustration, feeling his grip curling tighter into my arm. "Help me," I say again, for I only want him to come with me, I only want him to live.  
  
"They will catch you!" he hisses, and he yanks on my arm.  
  
He is trying to stop me, I realize in sudden fear. He may alert the guards-- he may call out-- he may stop me from escaping.  
  
I should kill him.  
  
I bend my arms, raising the axe as I look at him. It will take but a second-- he is weak and can offer no resistance. Then I will turn to the guard at my back and slay him as he runs toward me, and then I will wait for the other guard to come to me and kill him too. And then I will run, and I will not stop running.  
  
"Stay," he wheezes, patting my arm. "Stay."  
  
 _Annael looking down at me, his grey eyes wide and bright with emotion. "Stay," he whispers sharply. "Tuor! Stay!"_  
  
Could I kill Annael?  
  
No. I could not.  
  
But he taught me to flee, and that I can do.  
  
"Work," I say to the slave, shoving him away from me. It is agony-- I feel like he pulls out something from inside of me as he steps back. It is agony to move away from him. But I must, I will, I will run from here, I will run before reason deserts me and I kill the slave.  
  
I look to the guard behind me-- he does not return my gaze, for he is barking orders to another thrall. Now is the time. Can I leave the slave, can I leave him behind? I do not want to. I am tired, so tired, of doing things that I do not want to.  
  
I hear a whisper.  
  
"Goodbye."  
  
I wish I had told Annael goodbye. Perhaps it would have made his agony less.  
  
  
~||~  
  
  
The breath leaves his lungs in one heavy whoosh as I smack the axe into his back. A thrill trembles up my arms at the impact-- but he is not dead, not yet. I dislodge the axe and the guard turns, his face contorted in pain, his hand flying to the sword hanging at his belt. I bury the axe in his chest.  
  
 _Instinct . . ._  
  
He falls. Manic joy pumps through my veins, and I feel my muscles trembling, my eyes twitching. He is dead. I am almost free. He is dead. I can run.  
  
 _Wisdom . . ._  
  
One left. There is still one left. I must kill him before I am free, before I can run. I must defeat him. I must think.  
  
I whirl around, tearing my eyes from the blood dripping off the steel head of the axe in my hands. The other guard is charging toward me, faster than his bulk should have allowed. He does not reach for his sword, as I had hoped-- his hand has uncoiled his whip, and it twists the air, reaching for me.  
  
I cannot stay.  
  
I throw myself to the side, rolling onto my knees as the whip cracks atop my head. I lunge for him, my axe forward-- I am not close enough.  
  
He turns. The whip snaps around my middle, driving out my breath, burning my skin. The force propels me, I fall on my face.  
  
I am close enough.  
  
I rear up and throw the axe into his belly.  
  
 _Freedom . . ._  
  
I run.  
  
  
~||~  
  
  
 _Annael?_  
  
Branches slap my face but it seems a welcome, the warmest caresses from rough green fingers, urging me onward. The ground climbs and falls beneath me, rocks jutting into my feet, stumps throwing me to the ground in spite. But I get up, I run. I must run. I must go, I must find--  
  
 _Annael!_ I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, but open them with a gasp for air. If I could but hear his voice, I would remember his words. What did he tell me of? I would find it, I said. No, not it-- him, I would find him. And a gate-- and Elven-gate we sought. The Gate of the Noldor.  
  
I hear shouting. Were there other guards nearby? Of course there were-- there were other labourers, other slaves, they would not be without guard. They will send hounds.  
  
Something crashes through the underbrush behind me-- and then something runs at my heels. Something snags fast the back of my breeches and I lurch to a halt, looking back in fear.  
  
It is Haldad. I hold down my palm and his teeth release my pants, his tail beginning to wag. His wet nose presses into my hand and he licks it, and I think I could stand and let him lick forever, except that I know I must run.  
  
"Home," I command, loudly so he does not mistake my tone, and I point in the direction of Lorgan's home. He looks at me-- one long, last look of perfect love-- and then he turns and runs from me.  
  
"Goodbye, Haldad," I murmur. It will be easier for him.  
  
What might I say to make it easier for me?  
  
 _Annael . . ._  
  
My throat burns, my chest aching as I pump my legs once more, leaping over log and dodging tree. I know not where I go-- I am driven by so many forces my head spins in thoughtless impulses. But there is one that I would obey--  
  
 _Thirst._  
  
I will find the Gate of the Noldor, that we sought so long ago.  
  
But first I will find water.  



	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silmarillion- and Unfinished Tales-based. Where draws the line between man and animal, between intellect and instinct? An account of the three years Tuor spent in captivity to Lorgan the Easterling.

I love to breathe.  
  
I have never tasted air that is so strong and salty, yet so sweet to my tongue. I love the flavour of it, and that I feel it deep in my chest. It makes me feel alive-- makes me know that I am alive. I likened it to wine, when first I inhaled it-- but it is a thousand times more potent, though it does not intoxicate, rather clearing the mind and strengthening the spirit.  
  
I stand alone on the cliff-- alone as I have been for these years past, and yet not so, for I do not feel the loneliness of it. I stand and look to the horizon, where the sun sinks out of sight, her burnished rays still grasping at the sky. She is beautiful, as I knew even in the darkness of my capture, beautiful in her wanton fire undying. She hoards no gold, but burns it that all might enjoy the warmth and light of the blaze. She is beautiful even as she leaves my sight, and twilight overcomes, because I know that she will come again.  
  
I say no goodbye to the Sun.  
  
I look to the Sea.  
  
The white-foam crowns of waves rise tall and lordly where they swell and crash against the foot of the cliff, scattered only to gather again in gossamer crests atop the water. Ai, the water pounds, deep and sonorous-- I see it, I hear it, I feel it beneath my feet. The Sea calls to me-- whispers in the slap against the surf, shouts in the waves of the deep.  
  
 _The Great Sea._  
  
No enclosing shores-- no walls.  
  
No chains bound to the feral ocean tempests.  
  
No master but the very spirits of the Sea.  
  
 _The Sea . . ._  
  
I would be a part of it.  
  
I close my eyes to the salt-stinging winds and spread my arms, stretching wide and unbound in that wild, clear freedom of space. The rock falls away beneath my feet and I imagine that I fly, that I soar through the air-- to the Sea. If I could do but one thing in this moment, I would lift from these mortal shores and free-fall. To be a fleshless spirit, expanding limitless in the liquid-gem waters, no heights nor depths except those of tiny lands that I hold upon my free-form shoulders.  
 __  
The Sea . . .  
  
It speaks to me, and I believe that it will not stop-- for it is in me now, the longing of the Sea, and until we are one I will find no true rest.  
  
But the promise of the Sun holds us both in wait . . .  
  
I open my eyes and exhale, dispelling the ocean air with joy in knowing that my next breath will only bring it again. There is no light now but the pale stars-- the ocean shimmers black, snow-points of lather gone dull in the darkness. And though I will now climb down from these cliffs to seek food and shelter, I again speak no farewell, and there is such pleasure, such everlasting joy in knowing that I need not say it.  
  
The Sea is in me, and after the Sun has come, I shall see it again.  
  
And true freedom I will know at last.  



End file.
